Silent Hill: Childe of Dark
by White Eyebrow
Summary: An elite army washout retires to the peaceful seclusion of Silent Hill. His sanity is pushed to the breaking point as he is forced into a war for which he is ill equipped. Chapter 1 is up!
1. Prologue

A/N: This takes place between SH1 and SH2 video games (ca. 1990.) This is episode 3.5 of my series - written to silence a few plot-bunnies.

-WE

* * *

"Childe of Dark"

Prologue

_I always said you were a wimp Cooper._

…

_Scared of the dark, weak. You make me ashamed that you're my son!_

…

_Now you gotta prove to me that you can be a man: go out into the barn and kill twenty rats – in the dark._

…

_And don't come back till you're done!_

—oOo—

_BEEP BEEP…BEEP BEEP…BEEP BEEP…_

Sgt. Cooper MacBride sat up from his bunk with a start. He turned off the alarm in his wristwatch and reset the timer for another two hours. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he wiped the sweat from his face and took a few deep breaths until the pounding in his chest subsided.

Cooper groped in the darkness between the mattress and the headboard for his pistol. He pulled back on the shaft until he heard the click of the slide-stop. Probing the breech with his fingertips, he removed the bullet from the chamber before putting the weapon back in its hiding place. He yanked off the sweat soaked pillowcase and replaced it with a fresh one that he retrieved from the closet.

Wearing nothing but a towel, he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door to his room. It was the middle of the third shift so everyone else in the men's barracks was still asleep. He preferred this time of night; it was nice and quiet. With no one to bother him, it was as if he had the entire building to himself.

He didn't bother to turn on the lights in the community shower. Having made the trip so many times, he could literally do the routine with his eyes shut. Light was a tool – nothing more. For the average person, ninety percent of sensory information comes from the eyes. For him to rely on eyesight to such an extent was a crutch: a waste of the other four senses.

As he adjusted the spigot for the showerhead, he gauged the pressure by the sound of the fast-moving water splashing against the tile. The smell and taste of the vapor in the air told him that the water was at the right temperature. He stepped into the stall and lathered his face with gel. He picked up the razor as he systematically glided his hand across his face, checking for patches of stubble. The blade followed his fingertips as he shaved against the grain. He repeated the process until his skin felt smooth to the touch.

After the shower, he returned to his room and got ready for his shift, hours before he was expected to report for duty. As such, he decided to indulge himself before going out to the gun range. He unlocked the door to the lounge and grabbed a book from the periodical section. He sat down in his favorite chair located against the wall farthest from the television. He turned on the reading lamp and adjusted the dimmer switch just bright enough to allow him to read.

Not long after he got settled in, he heard a scraping sound against the window across the room. The pane slid open and a figure dressed in black climbed in from the outside. Cooper remained perfectly still as the shadow walked in front of him. He kept his hand hovered over the backup pistol hidden in the lapel of his vest. When he recognized the entrant, he relaxed. "Out after curfew again, _ShipWreck_?"

ShipWreck jumped when he heard his code name. "Geez _LowLight_, you scared the crap outta me! You're not here to narc on me are you?"

Cooper betrayed the hint of a smirk as he turned the page, "No. I've got better things to do with my time."

The sailor let out a sigh of relief as he leaned against the pool table to catch his breath. "Thanks…I've been working up this hottie in communications. I think I'm startin' to wear her down."

"Good luck with that." Cooper's answer was more of an afterthought.

ShipWreck's eyes narrowed, intrigued as to what held Cooper's attention. "So watcha reading?"

Cooper let out an impatient sigh and he looked up over the top the book to reply, "I apologize ShipWreck, somewhere along the way I must've given you the impression that I wanted to engage in idle conversation."

ShipWreck dismissed the rebuke and walked over to read the title of the paperback. "_The Lottery_, by Shirley Jackson…I wouldn't mind hitting the jackpot someday myself."

"It's not that kind of lottery. It's about how the wickedness of society is ever-present but always hidden. The winner of _this_ lottery is a scapegoat – a vessel that serves to contain the wrath for the sins of the many."

ShipWreck responded with a snort as he got up to leave the room. "…And I thought _I _was the one who needed to get laid."

—oOo—

Daybreak wasn't for another hour, so it was still dark when Cooper walked across the grounds outside. He set his rifle and field kit on the ground. After setting up his gear, he laid in position, lowered the tripod and flicked the cap off the scope. He reached blindly into his ammo box. His nose was to the grass as he placed a round into the breach.

He pulled the bolt back.

Cooper loved the smell of the morning dew on the field—before the air became polluted by the stink of gunpowder. The aroma, coupled with the cool earth beneath him, gave it a Zen appeal. He learned early on that to understand the gun, a shooter must understand nature. Temperature, the thickness of the air, the breeze against ones cheek: all of these things affect the path of the bullet. He exhaled slowly as he squeezed the trigger, emptying his mind as he meditated on the harmony of the kill:

_PAMF!_

A voice interrupted the euphony of the bullet's discharge. "I had a feeling that was you lurking about so early, LowLight."

Cooper didn't bother looking behind him; it was too dark to see who the speaker was. Moreover, it was unnecessary: Stalker had a very distinctive voice.

"That sounded like a _tracer round_, but I didn't see a trail," Stalker said.

"I'm using an experimental catalyst," Cooper replied calmly as he chambered another round. "It's only visible in the ultra-violet range."

Stalker put away his night vision binoculars. He knelt down over the field kit, noticing the exotic pair of goggles placed next to the ammo box. He picked them up and examined them as best he could with what little light there was. "May I?"

Cooper nodded. After Stalker put the goggles on, he squeezed the trigger again.

_PAMF!_

"I still don't see it," Stalker said, scanning the darkness for the bullets wake.

"Those are set for infra-red. Switch the band indicator to the other end of the spectrum."

Cooper waited for Stalker to make the necessary adjustments before squeezing off another round.

_PAMF!_

"Ah, there it is…This is an impressive piece of optics. How did you make it so small without compromising the field of vision?"

"That's a trade secret."

_PAMF!_

"I always thought your skills were better served in R&D. Why do you insist on staying with the infantry?"

"The day I can't shoot is the day I'll agree to take a desk job."

_PAMF!_

"I only offer it as a suggestion. There is... _resistance_ to renewing your contract with the unit."

"And who, pray tell, would take my place?"

"Snow-Job, for one."

Cooper snorted. "He's a marksman, not a sniper…There's a difference."

_PAMF!_

"Sci-Fi and I can take up the slack."

"Is this why you came out here Stalker? To tell me that I'm not gonna make the cut?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So who's blocking it? Is it Beach-Head or Slaughter?"

Stalker hesitated before answering, "Actually, it's _me_."

For the first time, Cooper looked up from his scope. He took his finger off the trigger and rose to face Stalker. "Why? You, of all people, should know there isn't anyone who can do this job better than I can." Although he could only make out a faint outline of Stalker's head, he insisted on staring him down as they continued their conversation in the darkness.

"I'm not denying your talent, but you're a train wreck waiting to happen. You've gotten by in the past because none of your previous CO's were snipers. But I've read your green-sheet and I know a _burn-out_ when I see one."

"Is that right? And what exactly do you see?"

"Call me a traditionalist, but I like my night spotters to be well rested. You're anti-social because you're plagued by chronic nightmares that don't allow you to sleep for more than an hour at a time—"

"Thomas Edison and Nikola Tesla."

"I beg your Pardon?"

"Edison often took cat-naps in his lab. Tesla never slept for more that two hours at a stretch; Sleep is overrated."

"Do you wanna tell me how you know that particular fact?"

"They were my role models growing up."

"I see. But, with all due respect, I wouldn't put Edison nor Tesla behind the scope of a high-powered rifle either."

"I do my job, and the team shrink clears me for duty every year. This time won't be any different, Stalker."

"We have a new staff counselor that I want you to see. If he passes you, then I'll sign off on your contract renewal."

"Who is it?"

"Sergeant Iron-Knife."

"You mean _Spirit?_ You want me to have a session with the Indian?"

"I believe the term is _Native American_."

"He's a tracker, not a shrink."

"We've all had to pull double-duty from the budget cuts. Like it or not, he _is_ qualified and you _will_ report to his office after morning chow."

Cooper clenched his jaw as he grunted in acknowledgement. The first beams of sunlight were starting to jut over the ridge of the firing range. He shouldered his rifle from a standing position and fired:

_PAMF! PAMF! PAMF! _

Stalker snorted. From observing the tracers, he knew that all the bullets must have hit the target. However, it wasn't until he zoomed in that he noticed that the practice target only had _one_ entry hole. He took off the goggles and handed them back before walking away. "Show off."

—oOo—

Cooper decided to skip breakfast. He got the sudden urge to swage his ammo—anything to keep his mind occupied. He turned on the pressure gauge installed in the bullet press and pulled down the lever to crimp the metal jacket around the bullet head. Upon the familiar click of the mechanism, he removed the newly minted round out of the swage and placed it on the table with the others. He promptly started the next bullet, measuring the grains of gunpowder on the scale, when Spirit walked in. Cooper pretended not to notice his entrance, but he was sufficiently distracted as to cause him to start the count over.

Cooper glanced at his watch, "Am I late?"

"No. _I_ am early," Spirit replied, giving the room a quick scan.

"Where's your bird," Cooper said flippantly, as he resumed operating the machine.

Spirit smirked. "Out doing what birds do. I do not keep him imprisoned."

"Well, I'm almost done here. We can go to your office after I cap this last shell."

"There is no rush. Among my people, a healer often spends time with the patient in their natural surroundings."

Cooper always admired Spirit. Like him, he was a minimalist when it came to the art of conversation. He was content to let Spirit look around while he resumed operating the bullet press, although he kept tabs on him out of the corner of his eye.

Spirit casually placed his clipboard on top of the coffee machine. On the wall above, he noticed a picture of an attractive blonde-haired woman. The autograph read, _with love form Una._ He continued on, pausing at an equipment shelf. There was a plaque on display that seemed out of place. He picked it up and read the inscription "A patent award? This is an odd location for an accolade."

Cooper ignored him, as if the comment was rhetorical, so Spirit replaced the plaque. His attention was then drawn to a cabinet that showcased Cooper's gun collection. He carefully pulled off the rifle that was placed in a position of prominence. Cooper looked like he was about to object, but reversed himself when he saw that Spirit handled the firearm respectfully.

Spirit's fingertips glided across the stock as he examined the relic, "Soviet made Mosin-Nagant…Is this the 1944 model?"

"1938."

Spirit aimed the rifle, gauging the weight as he squeezed the trigger. The click of the firing pin echoed in the office. "The balance is off."

"No it's not," Cooper replied sharply with a glare, although his voice maintained a low even tone. He was not accustomed to anyone telling him his business when it came to his guns.

Spirit replaced the rifle on the rack with care before walking over to Cooper's workstation. He picked up one of the newly pressed rounds arranged neatly in a row on the table. He rattled it briefly, feeling the weight of it in his palm. "Depleted uranium: kinetic energy penetrators. These are toxic, do you handle them often?"

"I take iodine pills as a precaution. But, considering that the half life on one those is a few billion years, I'm not too worried either way."

He replaced the bullet carefully before replying, "Don't worry. I didn't mean to suggest that the cause of your malady is environmental."

"My _malady?_ I thought you were just here to clear me for duty?"

"I am a counselor, not a recruiter."

"I hate to burst your bubble Spirit. But the source of my nightmares is pretty obvious. There's nothing to _counsel_, unless you intend to travel back in time. I've come to accept it and I make do."

"Yes, I've read your psyche profile. But, I believe the source of your dysomnia is intrinsic: within you."

"Fascinating," he replied, dryly.

"We have served together for many years. Your aura has always been imbued with a darkness. Normally I would associated that with a man who would do evil. However, you are unique in that you are able to harness that darkness and use it as a tool. The problem with that is such control is not meant to last. We all have a capacity for good and evil, but most of us find a balance by gravitating toward one of these extremes. You must learn to respect the darkness within because, if left unchecked, it can control you."

Cooper paused and raised an eyebrow. "Is that your clinical diagnosis for my _malady_?"

Spirit responded with a scowl. "I never understood why your people always feel the need to put a label on everything."

"And I never understood what this has to do with how I do my job. Making nice with my teammates isn't in the job description."

"I'm not so worried about how this is affecting your job. I am more worried about how it affects you personally."

Cooper let out a snort as he came to a realization. "_You're_ the one that put this bug in Stalker's ear about me begin a burn-out."

He nodded. "The spiritual well-being of everyone in this unit is my responsibility."

Cooper cursed under his breath, having inadvertently pulled the handle on the bullet press harder than he intended, causing the machine to rattle. "With all due respect, I don't believe in your _mumbo-jumbo_," he said behind clenched teeth.

"Fair enough. Tell me that the nightmares have not worsened, and I will stand-down."

Cooper considered lying in order to get Spirit to back off. However, even _he_ had to admit that the team's tracker had an uncanny perception, regardless of whether it was used to track down people or the truth. He was beginning to see why Spirit was assigned as the base counselor. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"What do you think prompted this?"

Cooper curled his lip. "Alright." It was obvious that Spirit was going to keep prying until he told him something personal—the kind of thing that shrinks usually like to hear. "I got a letter from my sister Una last month. Apparently, my father is dying of liver cancer. He's not expected to live much longer."

Spirit paused to regard Cooper's reticence. "I take it that this does not sadden you?"

"It's no big shock; the man drank like a fish. We all gotta go sometime."

"Are you going to at least visit him?"

"Not much point at this stage. We really don't have anything to say to each other."

"I see." Spirit broke from the conversation. In his reverie, he looked around the rest of the work area and walked back over to the coffee table by the entrance.

Cooper removed the next shell from the press. He inspected it briefly before placing it on the table with the others, "Not that I don't enjoy catching up with you, but can we start the session already? I have to teach a class this morning."

Spirit picked up his clipboard and took a pen out of his pocket. "We are done. I have heard enough."

Cooper stopped what he was doing and came out from behind his workstation. "I don't appreciate being flanked," he said, as he took off his safety goggles and work gloves. His calm demeanor belied the anger that he felt; however, he also recognized that he only had himself to blame. He stood next to Spirit, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was writing, "So what's the verdict?"

"Post-traumatic Hyposomnia brought about by unresolved anxiety." He glanced up at Cooper while he paused to flip his notebook over to a fresh sheet of paper before resuming his writing. He grinned in response to Cooper's confused expression, and added, "That is my _clinical diagnosis_."

"I think I liked it better when you were talking about Auras and all that other mumbo-jumbo."

"Not to worry. As your western doctors say, I will _write you a prescription_. If you take this as prescribed, you will have my recommendation."

Cooper nodded in approval. "Now that's more like it. What is it, a dream suppressant?"

"Truth be told, the conventional treatment is anti-depressants." Spirit ripped the page off and handed it to him. "However, I feel that you need something stronger."

Cooper's expression turned to ice as he read on. "This is for one months leave. What the hell is this?"

"I am ordering you to go visit your father and say goodbye," Spirit replied, matter-of-factly.

"You can't order me to do that," Cooper said, struggling to keep that even timbre in his voice. "This won't fix anything. You obviously don't know the first thing about me—"

"That is something we have in common... And maybe if you were better rested, you would have caught such an obvious tactic." The finality in his tone of voice effectively ended the conversation. Spirit left without saying another word.

Cooper wadded up the paper and chucked it into the wastebasket. He walked over to his desk and pulled an envelope out of the top drawer. He re-read the enclosed letter penned in his sister's familiar handwriting. Lost in his thoughts, his eyes remained focused on the letterhead:

Alchemilla Hospital

Silent Hill

End Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

"Childe of Dark"

Chapter 1

"Cooper."

Cooper let out a yawn as he stretched his arms over his head. He slowly opened his eyes. His vision came into focus and he noticed that he was traveling in a car. He had no idea where he was, but the surroundings felt familiar. He wiped the crust from his eyes and the drool from his mouth. He felt it odd how there was no sign stubble on his skin when his hand brushed against his cheek. He tried to pull down the vanity mirror behind the visor, but he couldn't reach it. It was then that he noticed his hand—it was so small. He drew his other hand into view and stared at them for several seconds. The scars on the backs of his hands were gone, as were the calluses on his palms. His fingertips were a healthy shade of pink, and didn't scrape together like sandpaper when he rubbed his thumbs against them.

"Wake up sleepy-head."

His head snapped sharply in the direction of the gentle voice. It was a voice he remembered from a distant memory. "Mom?"

"We're almost at your Aunt Sally's."

He watched her touch up her eyeliner in the rear-view mirror. She looked just as he remembered her, always preening and grooming herself. In retrospect, he thought it was amazing how much his sister favored her; it was no wonder that she became a model. Even the way they applied their makeup was the same. She was so beautiful. He didn't dare to blink, lest the image of her fade away like a mirage.

Cognizant of his attentions, she looked back at him with concern, saying, "You look pale. Are you ok?"

"Yeah I'm fine. It's just that I've...missed you."

"Oh baby, that's so sweet," she replied, blushing as she reached out to touch him.

He closed his eyes as her fingers graced his cheek. He could still feel the warmth of her touch even after she removed her hand. He wished that this moment would last forever, even if it were not real.

His tranquil reverie was interrupted when she turned the dial on the radio, stopping at Janis Joplin's _Cry Baby_. A chill swept over his body as repressed memories screamed to break through the surface of his consciousness. That song...it was the last thing he remembered hearing before-

"Mom stop the car!"

The warning came too late. The screeching of tires drowned the music playing over the radio. The car pulled them left, then right as she struggled to regain control of the vehicle. The tires exploded causing the car to spin faster and faster. It was so dizzying that it was impossible to tell when they became air-born. The world turned upside-down, then there was darkness.

When Cooper came to, the cabin started filling up with smoke. He could hear the sound of fire crackling outside. He reached across and shook his mother. No response. He felt her neck for a pulse. She was still alive. He unbuckled his seat belt and fell to the roof on his shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he pulled himself through the partially collapsed opening of the window. Once he was out, he ran to the other side to free his mother. The crawlspace was crushed between the ground and the weight of the vehicle, making it impossible to pull her free. His only option was to get the door open. He grabbed the latch of the driver's side door and pulled with all his strength, to no avail.

_Why is everything so heavy?_

The fire was growing larger. It was all happening again just as he remembered. He paced back and forth, pushing aside the urge to cower on the edge of the road.

_Think, dammit, think!_

He reached through the window and pulled the storage release. He then ran to the back of the car and groped frantically inside the trunk. In his haste, his thumb raked against something sharp, causing him to shriek in pain. Blood ran down his arm and dripped off the elbow, as he continued to fumble blindly, until he found the tire jack. He could feel the heat of the fire fed by leaking oil. Fortunately, this gave him enough light to work by. He wedged the jack between the gap in the window before affixing the handle to turn crank. It was working; the opening was getting bigger. The door started to warp, buckling between the weight of the car and the force of the jack.

_I forgot I how much I hate this damn song! _

Working halfway through the treads, blood continued to trickle from his hand, causing him to lose his grip on the crank. As he wrapped his hand with his sock to control the bleeding, the heat from the fire started to warm the back of his neck. He dared to look behind him; the flames were already dancing around the fuel tank. There was no time. He removed the handle from the jack and jammed it between one of the cracks behind the latch. If the jack had relieved enough pressure from the hinges, he might be able to pry the door open.

He propped his foot against the frame for leverage. The vertebrae in his spine popped as he pulled as hard as he could against the handle. He gritted his teeth so hard that his eyes started to tear up from the strain.

"...Please."

The word escaped his lips before he had a chance to stop it. Although it was too late to take it back, he resigned himself to the notion that his entreatment was most likely ignored - considering that it was made to someone who he has not spoken to in years.

Mercifully, he heard the sound of snapping metal. The lock gave and the door flew open. He fell backwards, landing hard on his shoulder - again. He rolled to his belly, and then crawled to the car on his hands and knees. Smoke blanketed the inside of the cabin, forcing him to hold his breathe as he reached inside to unlock her restraints. Grasping her firmly under each arm, he pulled her out. He continued to drag her along until they reached the side of the road.

He laid her down and checked her pulse again: nothing. Her lips were blue from asphyxiation. He fought back another urge to panic and allowed his training to take over. He straddled her and counted in his head as he began chest compressions.

..._twenty-seven_..._twenty-eight...twenty-nine...thirty!_

After ventilating, he checked her pulse again; he thought he felt something. He placed his ear over her mouth and waited impatiently. He was about to start CPR again when he felt her warm breathe on his earlobe. He rejoiced when he noticed the steady rise-and-fall of her chest. The color started to return to her face as she regained consciousness. She slowly sat up and looked around, noticing the wreckage behind them.

They held each other, tears in their eyes. He gripped her tightly as he nuzzled his head atop her breast.

"You see, Mom, I saved you."

"Yes baby, you saved me."

"I didn't hide on the side of the road this time."

"My little hero."

"Things are gonna be different this time—"

A rush of air caught their attention as the car exploded. Shrapnel and debris fell around them. He felt his mother's body flinch, then lean heavy against him. A thin sheet of metal landed next to them stained with red.

"Mama?"

She did not answer. He looked up, expecting to see his mother's loving eyes. There was nothing but empty air. He released his embrace, letting her body slump to ground. He didn't look; he _couldn't_ look. He started to walk away when he slipped on something wet. He fell on his side and, at ground level, found his mothers eyes. However, these eyes were empty and hollow - darting about in vergence to the command of dying synapses firing at random. The rest of her remained balanced in such a way that it appeared as if she were buried up to her neck in asphalt. He covered his ears so as to spare himself the sounds of twitching flesh. When her eyes finally stilled in their orbs, the only part left moving was the mouth - alternating rhythmically between a smile and a frown.

—oOo—

_BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP..._

Cooper involuntarily bucked hard against his seat, pulling him back to reality. After resetting the alarm on his wristwatch, he looked around the cabin to see if the noise had brought any attention upon him. Fortunately, the other passengers in first class were soundly asleep. He wiped the sweat from his face with his hand, taking note of the familiar stubble on his chin. The rattling of ice brought his attention to the hand holding the vodka screwdriver. It maintained a tight grip on the shattered glass; a swirl of red started to mix with the orange along the bottom of the drink.

He got up from his seat and headed down the aisle, brushing past the stewardess on the way. He dismissed the look of concern on her face as he entered the bathroom. After locking the door, he threw away the cracked glass and removed the shards lodged in his thumb. He washed his hands thoroughly and splashed some cold water on his face. He grabbed a wad of paper towels and applied pressure to the cut. After a few minutes the bleeding stopped.

His plane landed in Brahm's International Airport a few hours later without further incident. After disembarking, he walked by the baggage carousel and immediately spotted one of his pieces of luggage. He stood patiently as he waited for the rest of his things to come down the chute. All the while, he pondered the significance of the dream he had earlier. It was rare when he dreamed about his mother; she died such a long time ago. He reasoned that his father's condition must have spurred his subconscious to dig up those memories. The large metallic suitcase brought him out of his thoughts as it banged loudly along the conveyor belt. He winced as he picked up the heavy suitcase. The weight of it opened up the cut on his thumb, causing a few drops of blood to trickle off the handle.

By the time he walked out of the airport, his car rental was waiting for him by the curb. He entered the vehicle and started the engine. Before driving off, he glanced at the newspaper that he purchased at the periodical stand. He threw the paper in the passenger seat after reading the headline:

_Silent Hill Murder __Spree__ Claims Fifth Victim_

The drive from Brahm's was uneventful. He found the trip so relaxing that he almost missed the turn off from the interstate. The feeder road took him to an abandoned stretch of highway. He had to double check the map to make sure he was going in the right direction. He turned off the radio; listening to music had become a futile endeavor. All he could hear was the tread of the tires bumping against the patches of tar laid in the many cracks along the poorly maintained road. Fortunately, by the time he hit the mountain pass, the road started to smooth out. It was a clear day, so he could see for miles. Toluca Lake glimmered in the distance from the rays of the rising sun coming over the tree line. He put his map away when he drove past a rusty sign that had fallen into disrepair:

Welcome to Silent Hill

The streets were still barren in the early morning hours, giving it the appearance of a ghost town. After passing through the business district, he turned onto Sanford St., which took him around the perimeter of the lake.

In many ways, Silent Hill reminded him of his hometown in North Dakota. They were both quiet and unspoiled. However, the difference here was he always felt something was off about this out-of-the-way hamlet. Upon joining the Army, he had since traveled all over the world; yet Silent Hill proved to be inimitable.

He pulled into the parking lot of the Lake View Hotel. He handed his keys off to the valet and popped the trunk so the bellhop could take his luggage - although he opted to carry the large metallic suitcase himself. He checked into the presidential suite on the top floor. After tipping the bellhop and closing the door, he set the hard suitcase atop the desk. He placed his thumb on a sensor located under the handle. After a few seconds, the locks popped open. He opened the bi-level case to examine his gear. He took the night-goggles off the top shelf and put them on by force of habit. Considering that he always wore them when on duty, he felt naked without them. After giving the room a quick scan, he instinctively propped them above his brow. He picked up the M1911A1 pistol, slapped in a fresh clip, and tossed it onto the mattress. He then closed the equipment case and walked over to the patio.

He opened the drapes overlooking the lake. Anyone else would have taken the time to appreciate the view; however, he needed the light to work. He opened the rest of his luggage and took out his Class A uniform. He unrolled it over the mattress and used his fingers to smooth out the fabric - checking for any signs of wrinkles and other imperfections. Using his traveling iron, he gave his trousers a quick once-over to reinforce the crease down each leg. He took out his medals and pinned them on his jacket. Using a ruler, he measured the spacing, ensuring that they were arranged according to regulation. He saved his shoes for last, polishing them until he could see his reflection in the shiny leather.

After showering, he put his uniform on then stood at attention in front of the mirror above the dresser. He opened the velvet case and took out one last medal: a gold star surrounded by a wreath, topped by an eagle perched on a bar inscribed with the word "Valor." He respectfully unfolded the ribbon and placed it around his neck - adjusting it until the thirteen chevroned stars aligned perfectly with the knot in his tie.

After ordering breakfast, he left the hotel and drove to Alchemilla Hospital. Upon arriving, he waited a full ten minutes in the parking lot - his hands gripped tightly against the steering wheel. Even though the A/C was on the highest setting, they were sweating profusely. He wiped them off on the seat cushions as he steeled himself. When he finally got out of the car, he adjusted his hat in the reflection of the glass before going inside.

After some direction from the front desk, he was able to find the room. He gripped the doorknob, but waited before walking in. His palms were sweating again. He dried them off on his handkerchief and noticed that they were shaking slightly.

_All I have to do is say goodbye..._

He took a deep breathe as he slowly entered the room. Against the far wall, his father laid still, as if asleep. He approached and stood by the corner of the frame. The room was silent, save for the EKG that blipped slowly next to the bed. There was a plastic pouch hung over the side of the rail containing a yellow liquid. An IV was inserted into each hand. The skin on his arms was riddled with age spots and lesions. His face was gaunt; the skin drawn in. Most of his hair had fallen out. He looked withered - defeated.

It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had raised him. As he looked away, he noticed the gold light, reflected from his medals, shining on the wall above the headboard. He turned subtly, angling the sunlight through the window until the golden glow rested on his father's face. He wanted to make sure it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

"Da...Major?"

There was no response. He didn't even stir at the sound of his voice. He started to reach out in order to shake his leg when he noticed the chart at the foot of the bed. He picked up the clipboard and read the top sheet. The words written in bold at the top stood out from the others:

**Do Not Resuscitate**

"Coop?"

His attention turned to the familiar voice. His sister Una had entered room. Her blonde hair and gentle green eyes haunted him. She had grown to look so much like their mother that it made it difficult to disregard his dream. She laid her purse and coffee down on the table. Cooper stared, but still failed to acknowledge her.

Una folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, saying, "Not a word from you in _two_ years and I can't get a simple, _hello sis?"_

He blushed as he tried to crack a smile. "Hello sis."

She replied with a pout, then went over to hug him. She felt him tense up when she pressed against him, but she didn't let go until he returned her embrace. "I'm glad you came."

He cleared his throat nervously as he took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. "So how is the _Major?_"

"_Dad_ is not doing so well. He's been comatose for the past week."

He curled his lip. "What does that mean?"

"The doctors don't know if he'll ever wake up."

"Is that why you signed off on this?" he said, showing her the D.N.R. order from the chart.

She averted her eyes and looked down at her feet. "You didn't _see_ him Coop. He had three cardiac events after his last round of chemo. You know how he gets when his mind is made up... He didn't wan't to admit it, but he couldn't stand the pain."

"So I'm not going to get a chance to say goodbye?" he mused.

"I'm sorry Coop." After an uncomfortable silence, she tried to change the subject. "It was nice of you to pay for all the medical bills."

He replaced the chart on the rail. "A soldier never leaves another man behind."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh I see. So you were duty-bound?"

"It was no big deal; I licensed one of my patents. Frankly, I'm surprised that he accepted the money."

She smiled nervously. "Well...I ended up telling him that the VA approved his extended care," she said, biting her lower lip afterwards.

He snorted quietly. "Typical that you had to sneak under his radar like that."

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge; you're just like him: that _MacBride pride_."

"If I'm not mistaken, your last name is MacBride too," he replied, deadpan.

"Smart Alek." Una rolled up her newspaper and playfully swatted him. "It only affects the males."

He caught the paper and snatched it from her, allowing her the indulgence of a chuckle at his expense.

The headline of the front page caught his eye as he unrolled it:

_Silent Hill Second Annual "Festival by the __Lake__" Draws Record Crowds_.

The subject matter stood in stark contrast to headlines of the paper he got in Brahms. He flipped through the other pages to see if there was any mention of recent violent crimes. Eventually, he found the story of interest buried on the last page. More disturbing was the fact that the article was very cryptic—referring to the murders as _attacks_. He made it a point to remember the byline, _written by_ _Joseph Schreiber_.

He presented the article to her saying, "This town has some skewed priorities."

"What do you mean?'

"Reports out of Brahm's read like it's _open season_ on people down here. How come you didn't mention any of this in your letter?"

Una shrugged as she skimmed the first few paragraphs. "The authorities have given everyone the impression that the increase in crime was from all the tourism. Besides, you read about stuff like this all the time in L.A."

"This isn't L.A., sis. I hope you've been careful."

"Of course. Anyway, most of the attacks have happened in South Vale on the other side of town."

"I see, so where are you staying?"

"Your concern is touching, but I'm a big girl now, Coop-"

"I see, so where are you staying?"

"I've been on my own for quite some time now, without any meddling from my _big brother,_ I might add-"

"I see, so where are you staying?"

She sighed impatiently, but thought it best to placate him. "I'm staying at a hotel in the next town, and I leave here everyday before sundown."

"Good girl," he replied, nodding with approval. "Do you need any money?"

She smirked and put her hands on her hips. "Coop, I earn more money than _you_ do... C'mon, I'll buy you lunch. We can catch up."

As he followed her out, his arm brushed against the rail, knocking the chart on the floor. He picked it up, and was about to replace it when he regarded the D.N.R. order. He glanced at his father briefly, and then looked around to make sure his sister had left the room. He then took the order off the clipboard and replaced the chart. He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket as he left to join her.

End Chapter 1.


End file.
